


Bridge of Choices, Bridge of Fate

by DixieDale



Category: Girl From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Does the future depend on choice, or does it depend on fate?  A sidetrip, courtesy of orders from Alexander Waverly, allows one UNCLE agent the opportunity to explore the possibilities.  Hopefully, that agent might even survive the experience.





	Bridge of Choices, Bridge of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> References or alludes to events in previous stories -  
'Warm Memories'  
'Ashtore'  
'Fathers and Uncles'  
And others
> 
> For M. Thanks for the inspiration.

The bridge had stood there for longer than local stories could estimate. It had no name, not really, most just called it 'the bridge'. Some said it had always been there, before the land itself, though surely that was unlikely. 

What was truly odd, many claimed it no longer existed, that they'd been that way many a time and never seen even a trace, even while others swore they could still see it shining in the sunlight on certain days. 

Still, it was just called 'the bridge', and everyone knew WHICH bridge they were referring to - a place where it was claimed a person could see visions - visions of the past, perhaps - perhaps even of the future. 

There was general debate as to whether what you saw had any truth to it, certainly. But it was agreed that, if you saw anything, you generally saw more than you ever thought to see, perhaps more than you ever wanted to see. 

It was claimed there were those who left that bridge, headed off the far side into the caves behind the falls, and never returned - they possibly feared what they saw so much they plunged into one of the many caverns to escape. Who knows, since none returned to tell the story. Some? It was claimed they so longed for what they saw in front of them, they leaned forward too far in their attempt to grab hold of it and plunged to their deaths, ending their lives on the rocks below. Again, how did one know the truth, since the dead told no tales?

And those who did return? Oddly enough, none of those ever remembered quite what had transpired on that narrow footbridge. Or so they claimed, though there were those who doubted it, since those individuals seemed to have a new direction, a new focus, a new determination in their lives. 

Still, even for those, there was no doubt the experience had an impact, though for better or worse, that was something only time would tell.

The teams of Solo and Kuryakin, Dancer and Slate had been looking forward to returning to New York, hopefully to have at least a little down time before heading back out again. The voice of their superior, Alexander Waverly, via Napoleon's communicator, put paid to that idea. Now they were bound to some out-of-the-way place to pick up something from an unexpected informant, someone willing to rat out Thrush in return for a favor in return, a favor Waverly saw no need to enlighten them about either.

They were resigned, if none too happy, about this sudden detour. 

"Sometimes I wish Waverly would let us get all the way back, get our reports done at least, before coming up with a new job," Napoleon had grumbled, and none of them could disagree with that complaint.

Ferreting out the traitor inside the branch office of UNCLE in Billings had taken all their efforts, (sweet, innocent-faced, and smiling little Melissa), and they'd all received bruises aplenty before it was over. Physically and otherwise, since there seemed to be some lingering resentment on the parts of both Illya and Napoleon, and even Mark had come away with an oddly sheepish expression on his face. April? She'd just wanted to slap the sly, manipulating little bitch upside her silky golden curls, and was actually quite pleased when Melissa made a break for it and April was able to fulfill that little fantasy. 

Napoleon was going to get yelled at by the Head of Accounting, once again, having demolished not one, but two, of his fine suits in the endeavor. Of course, he had been gently twitted by the other three, none of them understanding the need for wearing suits of that quality in that particular location. 

"I believe most others in the Billings office were wearing quite acceptable garments, Napoleon," Illya had remarked. "From someplace called 'Sears Roebuck', I believe. Perhaps you might consider those in the future. They would perhaps be less costly to replace and at least reduce the ire of the Head of Accounting when presented on your expense account."

They'd all laughed at the appalled look on Napoleon's face at that thought, and again at his indignant, "I have never, nor will I ever, wear a suit from Sears Roebuck, I assure you! Luigi has my measurements; I will make a call when I get back. I am sure he can get me something wearable in short order."

The sudden sputter of their engine brought a concerted groan, and their most urgent need became finding a place of shelter from the equally-sudden downpour that engulfed them.

This time, as tensions rose, the chiding wasn't quite as gentle as before.

"I thought you had filled the tank, Napoleon. That WAS what you intended while we each took care of other tasks, wasn't it? Or, as it was in Billings, did you find OTHER things to distract you from your role?" 

No, Illya hadn't forgiven Napoleon yet, that much was obvious.

Well, yes, they'd gotten back to the rental car to find Napoleon leaning back in his seat taking a doze, but it hadn't occurred to anyone to ask whether he'd started that nap before or AFTER he'd filled the gas tank. Now, the answer seemed obvious, no matter how he protested, dug in his wallet to pull out a receipt, that, somehow, couldn't be found. 

{"Another thing Accounting is going to have a fit about,} he groaned, since he REMEMBERED filling that blasted gas tank. {"At least I think I do. I can't even go by the lingering smell of gasoline on my hands, since I'm always careful not to carry that away with me,"} he admitted ruefully to himself.

It was April who spotted the odd structure, almost a small castle, off to the right, halfway up a long incline. Well, first she'd spotted the footbridge, backlit by a flash of lightning, a bridge that seemed to come from somewhere in the vicinity of the castle, crossing in front of a plunging waterfall before disappearing into the cliffs beyond. She'd done no more than point in that direction when the car died, and having died, refused to utter even a whimper when Napoleon tried to get it started again.

They all looked at each other, at the rain pouring around them, and then at the dwelling lit with several lights, a most welcome sight, one promising at least shelter, perhaps food as well. Sighing in resignation, they got out and started the long trek up the slope.

Their unexpected host was welcoming, once he got over the shock of having four drenched strangers appearing at his door. He had exclaimed over their soaked clothing, ushered them into comfortable bedrooms, provided dry, if not elegant, clothes for them to change into. 

Later, that same host, an attractive silver-haired man of interdermined age, one who had insisted they call him by his first name, escorted them to a dinner table that was graced with a large tureen of richly-aromatic soup, roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and a medley of crisp vegetables, with a large basket of yeasty rolls.

"Bert, for short. Beartas, as I was so unfortunately named in my first days, is just a little awkward, you know."

"Beartas?" April had remarked. "Doesn't that mean 'fate'?" 

That had been met by a raised brow. "Indeed, though not many know that. Do you speak Celtic, Miss Dancer?" That thought seemed to make him slightly uncomfortable.

She had given a smiling demur at that, perhaps not being quite as truthful as she might have been, but not wanting to cause their host any discomfort. 

"Only a few words, here and there, that I picked up somewhere. That just stuck in my mind, it seems," and no more was said on the subject.

Bert had been an amiable companion at the satisfying meal they had been served. It was only when April, in all innocence, had brought up the subject of the footbridge they'd seen as their car made its limping journey toward the only sign of habitation they'd passed for many miles that things got more uncomfortable. Well, at least their host was uncomfortable, extremely so, it would seem. 

And as for her question about how to get there, "for it appeared most intriguing. I'd love to get a closer look," that got a sharp look, along with a firm shake of his head.

He had offered a swift, if sincere denial.

"No, no, Miss Dancer, I'm afraid you are quite mistaken. There hasn't been a bridge there for many a year. I believe your imagination is running away with you. Easy to see how that could happen, of course. I mean, what with all the local folklore putting your mind in that direction. And the mist from the falls does tend to mislead the eye. And the storm probably added to the effect. In fact, due to the topography, the falls are quite inaccessible, one of the few places of which it might honestly be said 'you CAN'T get there from here'."

Illya was quietly skeptical, though probably no more than the rest of them. Well, they had each caught at least a glimpse of that bridge, though only April had gotten a truly clear look - a wooden footbridge suspended between twisted wire supports. It existed, they would each be prepared to swear to that, no matter what Bert claimed. And how COULD there be 'no way to get there', like their host insisted with all earnestness? It might not be easy, might not be worth the effort, but surely there was a way.

They all agreed on that, when they were back in one of the bedrooms allocated to them, Mark and April joining Napoleon and Illya for a drink from the brandy bottle their host had left there.

"I have heard that saying before. 'You cannot get there from here.' I have never had anyone say it to ME, directly, that is, and seem to really mean it. The near end of that bridge could not have been more than a few hundred yards from the house; we saw it clearly from the car, all of us. It is not possible he would not know how to get there. Why would he tell us that? Why would he ever think we would believe him?" Illya wondered aloud.

"Don't know, mate," Mark responded, "but seems he was apt to be knocked over with a feather when we told him we'd SEEN the bridge. Well, you heard him. "That's totally impossible! The bridge was destroyed a great many years ago. You've obviously been reading too much local folklore!"

The thing was, they HADN'T been, reading the local folklore, that is. They hadn't even intended to be in this part of the state, certainly not enough to do any casual reading about the place. Wouldn't have been there at all, if that last faintly-garbled message from Waverly hadn't made them turn from their established route to venture far to the northeast.

Well, tomorrow, after the rain stopped and their host let them refill their gas tank from his reserves, as he'd assured him would be the case, they'd be on their way to pick up that file from that reclusive individual Waverly hadn't bothered to name. 

Well, he did have his odd quirks, the Old Man. Hopefully this time his directions actually made sense and they wouldn't have to go wandering around asking about 'Roghan Droichead' (at least that was what it SOUNDED like the faint voice over the communicator had said!), and how they got there. They didn't really have time to worry about a bridge that, for some reason, their host refused to admit really existed.

(Later, an irritated Alexander Waverly would dispute that entire conversation, at least the location. 

"I asked you to stop in Rochester, gentleman, Miss Dancer! Not at this 'Roghan Droichead'! Really, such a ridiculous way to interpret my instructions! 'Bridge of Choices' indeed, or something similar, if I remember my Celtic properly! Perhaps your communicators need fine-tuning if they can slur my words to THAT extent!"). 

April wondered, listening to him complain, touching the charm bracelet on her arm, acknowledging to herself that the words had perhaps been slurred, perhaps not, but wondering if fine-tuning the communicators would have prevented that from happening, now or in the future. She rather doubted that, somehow.

*  
When April had awakened, and then followed that shadowy beckoning figure down the hall and out through that door that she couldn't remember seeing before, she didn't know what she expected, but certainly not to end up here. On that narrow footbridge spanning a vast waterfall. A bridge that supposedly did not exist. 

Now she was drawn on, til she reached the middle and looked down, watching the water from the falls crashing down into the gorge below. Her thoughts were now crashing through her, even louder than the roar of the raging waters. 

She had no idea how long she stood there, watching the water pounding on the rocks below, feeling the familiar warmth building from her charm bracelet, before the pictures started appearing in the shimmer of the waterfall.

Meanwhile on the other side of a pulsing barrier, her partner tried desperately to reach her, to no avail.

April, standing in the middle of that narrow bridge, caught her breath at the sight forming in the mist. 

Herself, in a satin and lace wedding gown, white net veil held in place by a pearl-studded tiara, laughing, receiving a fond kiss on her cheek from Mark, one last oh-so-tight, warm hug, him laughing in turn as he brushed the rice and confetti out of her hair, her hearing his murmured best wishes. Wondering just a little at the odd, wistful look in his eyes. Wondering, once again, if she had just made the mistake of a lifetime. 

She had been hesitant when Joey Celeste had reappeared, asking her to marry him. He'd shown up out of the blue, handsome and charming, calling her 'Princess' like he always had, assuring her he'd put his troubled past behind him, made peace with his enemies, promising her the moon. Well, she wasn't so much interested in the moon, but then he'd mentioned 'taking time to smell the flowers, together, Princess', and then, 'perhaps teaching our children to do the same'. 

That last, that had tugged at her heart, or maybe just gave a nudge to her biological clock. She'd been thinking of that just the other day, watching that woman in the park with the small child playing peacefully at her feet, while watching some older children playing soccer not far away. Had felt the yearning, had entertained a notion or two, but firmly drew her temptation back inside, telling herself she had a job to do, a partner who needed her to be her professional best. A partner who would never consider walking away from the job he had undertaken, never consider . . .

And then, Joey had returned, again and again, and wasn't inclined to give up, and the temptation had become oh so strong!

It hadn't been an easy decision, true. But it had been her decision, made against the wishes of Alexander Waverly, most certainly. He didn't like losing the first female field agent of UNCLE New York to something as common as matrimony, and there had been an undercurrent of some deeper, perhaps a more personal resentment as well. 

Waverly had not been in attendance today, though as Head of UNCLE New York, she hadn't really expected him to be; it was far too public a venue, would have put him in danger. He had forbidden the rest of the personnel to attend, as well. 

All had obeyed, except for Mark Slate, who'd nodded in calm acceptance at the stricture from their superior, but shown up anyway, nevermind he was supposed to be on his way to Bolivia. Well, that was her partner, after all. He always HAD had her back.

Mark hadn't tried to dissuade her, argue her out of this marriage, other than reminding her that Joey Celeste, even in his new identity, wasn't the safest of lifetime companions. 

"Of course, I suppose I'm not either," he'd admitted with a rueful laugh. "Seen some damage to both of us during the time we've been partnered. Of course, I imagine this will have the Old Man giving Joey even a tighter level of protection, considering how fond he is of you, no matter all his current blustering."

She wondered at the odd phrasing, had started to challenge her partner, indignantly demand whether he really thought that was why Joey had come back for her, to gain a greater barrier between him and his enemies, but refrained. She really didn't want any hard feelings between her and her partner, and she had the feeling that might just provoke an argument that couldn't be forgiven, on either side.

Still, that 'I suppose I'm not either' had teased at the edge of her mind, and she was tempted to call him on that, at least, see what he really meant, whether there was something more, something that might cause her to reconsider.

But she hadn't, didn't quite find the courage or the opportunity, and that was the closest he had ever come, and that wasn't near close enough.

April stood on the bridge, watched the scene unfold as she and Joey left the church. She watched as that other April had turned, forcing a smile onto her face, looking up into the eyes of Joey Celeste, now her husband, before climbing into that long black car. Murmuring something to her new husband, though not sure quite what, she'd leaned back out out the open window to wave to Mark and the others one last time. Hearing perhaps only with her mind's eye that tiny click, then feeling the explosion that sent them, her, and everything in the surrounding block into a vast nothingness. Seeing, somehow, though it shouldn't have been possible, the look of horror, a look of utter devastation on Mark's face at the explosion. Hearing his scream '"April!! NO!!"

Saw his anguish, just before the debris slammed into the crowd, erasing that look of agony as perhaps nothing other than his own death could have accomplished. 

Her bracelet grew warmer now, almost burning her arm, as she watched. 

There was a shimmer in the devastating picture below, somehow a defiant one, as if some force was pushing against some barrier, insisting on letting her seeing herself, at least a faint tracing of herself, moving away from the demolished car at a speed faster than could be accounted for, unhesitating, reaching Mark just as his own faint tracing moved away from what was left of his body. He came to stand by her side, and then they moved away from the scene of carnage, his arm tight around her shoulder. 

Taking one long look back, wondering if she would see a similar tracing of Joey, although she didn't, she turned back to her partner, looked into his blue eyes unflinchingly. 

A circling glow of light summoned her in the distance, and she deliberately, steadfastly ignored it. Whatever it offered, those blue eyes offered more, revealed more than they ever had allowed themselves to do before.

"Where are we going, darling?" she asked. Once again she made a choice, and this one she had far more confidence in. This time it felt right.

"Haven't a clue, April-luv," he admitted ruefully. Somehow, it didn't really matter, not to either of them. They'd finally gotten it right; they were finally together. Together they'd face whatever was ahead - partners, as always.

The scene faded, only to be replaced by another, one quite different. 

April now watched herself, seated at the desk formerly held by Alexander Waverly, and after him, Napoleon Solo. Now it was as if part of her merged with that other April, thoughts, feelings becoming one.

It was difficult focusing on the report in front of her, her eyes watering at the strain. She rubbed at them in frustration.

{"I used to get a little annoyed at how impatient Mr. Waverly used to get, him just wanting to get our briefings over with, so he could be on to the next thing on his desk. I understand, now. It's that there IS always that 'next thing', and probably only the first of twenty more in the day."}. 

She had never thought to end up here; had intended to do her best for the organization til she was retirement age, then consider her options. Had intended to be a Field Agent til that point. But the death of her partner, Mark Slate, so long ago, had put an end to that. 

Oh, she'd still been willing, had WANTED to be out there, grimly continuing to fight the fight he'd died for. But the doctors, the blasted psychologists, had denied her that; had come up with all kinds of reasons for her to take on other duties, and Mr. Waverly had sided with them, not her. Sometimes she wondered if it hadn't been his idea in the first place; that would certainly account for his adamant refusal to see things her way.

In any case, the blasted medical experts had given her reaction all kinds of names, though basically boiling down to her having 'survivor's guilt'.

Well, she did bear her share of that, certainly, having given way to Waverly's demand for her presence at that Committee meeting instead of accompanying her partner on that last mission. The experts were certain that because of that, because of not being able to rain death and destruction down on the Thrush satrapy responsible for Mark's death, it already having been destroyed, she had dreamed up OTHER, more available, villains, ones close enough she COULD reap vengence upon. 

Even after she had proved there really WAS a mole, one who had betrayed Mark's identity to Thrush, led him into that trap, she was kept on desk duty.

She had been placed in the office next to Waverly, taking on the role of, well, not his secretary, as such. More his right-hand, his confidante. Those things, possibly others, but NOT encompassing the role he had truly wanted her to take on in addition to the others.

She'd been greatly relieved when he'd accepted her refusal, when she'd firmly turned down his very discreet suggestion that she become something, someone, well - MORE. Similar to the 'someone' Lisa Rogers had been. Oh, not the 'assassin' part, the rest of it.

She still couldn't understand how he had thought she would accept that offer, how much of a betrayal that would be to Miriam Walker Waverly, whom she considered a friend. 

And a betrayal of her partner, too, though perhaps that didn't make quite so much sense, considering. But still, there it was.

Perhaps it was her lingering resentment at Waverly's less than sincere expression of sympathy at Mark's death; that still gnawed at her, all these years later, though she had rejected her initial wondering about the timing of her partner having been sent out alone, without her support, without another agent to back him up. Yes, there was still resentment, enough that, at Waverly's funeral, while she'd stood at Miriam's side, offering her quiet support, her feelings were mixed. 

She would have been loath to have to express any of those feelings to anyone, even declining the request that she do one of the several eulogies. She'd gotten some odd looks at that, but she had been afraid some of those pent-up feelings might have slipped out, and that was hardly the time or the place. 

If she had never confronted Waverly directly, had never just walked out, away from him and UNCLE, after her partner's death, this funeral was hardly the time to get all emotional, at least in that respect. 

Somehow, she had a feeling Miriam had understood, certainly bore no ill-feelings, and the two of them had remained friends until Miriam's death several years later. 

In Miriam's final days, April had spent a great deal of time with her. They had just finished a long conversation about choices they had made, both good and bad. She remembered sitting by her friend's bedside, trying to deliver whatever comfort and solace she could, when she had been surprised by a wry chuckle coming from Miriam. 

"I don't regret my choice as far as Alexander was concerned, though I know you've had your doubts about that. No, he was not an easy man, April, but then I knew that from the first. And I HAD a choice, you know. Back then we were both field agents for the Allies. He was so wrapped up in work, the missions, he was ignoring 'us' except as a vague 'someday'. I was the one who pushed, wanted more, wanted all, though at first I didn't have a real clue how to go about it. 

"He'd never been overly interested in the physical side of things, too distracted by the war and all else, or so it seemed, and any overtures on my part were greeted more by a fond 'pat on the head' sort of return rather than passion. 

"I knew I wanted him, but it took enlisting the help of a couple of friends, if I dare call them that, to give me the courage, the confidence to make the push. I've not seen them since, though we've spoken a few times through the years, though Alexander never knew that. I certainly still THINK of them as friends. 

April held the glass and straw to let Miriam take a drink, the woman's voice having gotten a little whispery.

A nod of thanks, then a warm smile of remembrance came to the woman. 

"He had been kind to me," and April knew Miriam wasn't referring to Alexander, "shared warmth when I thought I was going to freeze to death, in body, certainly, but also in spirit. It was the oddest time, April, and the oddest experience - such a CHEERY sharing of what could have easily been embarrassing or demeaning, but was no such thing, not the way he obviously felt about it. I remember him telling me his girl would feel the same way, that it just wouldn't have been right, letting me sit there freezing my toes when he could put matters right. 

"I'd imitate that Cockney accent of his for you if I could; I could in my earlier days, used to aggravate Alexander by doing so, but I seem to have lost the knack. Goniff offered to introduce me to his girl, his 'Gaida, maybe let her give me a few ideas about getting Alexander a little more interested. I still can't believe I had the courage to take him up on that, but shortly thereafter, I did, out of pure frustration."

Another laugh, this one with a smile that gave April a glimpse of the young woman Miriam must have been at that time.

"And did she?" April asked. "Give you some ideas?"

Miriam chuckled deep in her throat, a suprisingly sensuous laugh.

"They both did. I still remember her saying when we were introduced, "Goniff says you need your curiosity satisfied?" and that comment of his, in that sly way of his "'er curiosity and per'aps a bit more". She smacked him on top of his head with a teaspoon for that bit of impertinence, as I recall. Well, that was certainly the case, and between the two, my curiosity and 'perhaps a bit more' were certainly satisfied. And I went home intent on a new tack with Alexander, one that brought his focus away from the war for long enough to get things settled between us."

"So you see, it WAS my choice, and I made it knowing Alexander was not, was never likely to be an easy man in any regard. 

"How Goniff or Meghada knew his tastes were a little more than what I believe is called 'plain vanilla', I don't know. I never asked. Perhaps they didn't; perhaps it was just that their own tastes were . . . 

"Well, remember that trip we made to Constantine's Sweet Shop when you and Mark escorted me to visit the children? That lovely, lovely menu in the ice cream parlor? At the far left, at the top, was 'single scoop, vanilla ice cream, in a dish'. How it progressed, ending up with 'Constantine's Extravaganza'? I remember sitting there in total awe, watching Mark devour that huge conglomeration, like a banana split gone berserk, so many ingredients the description took up the full last quarter of the page."

Miriam didn't notice, or perhaps chose not to acknowledge, the hint of tears in April's eyes, that wistful smile, remembering that afternoon, remembering her partner, the one with the wry smile that she'd found so endearing.

"Well, perhaps we never got to 'Constantine's Extravaganza' that long afternoon, though I wouldn't be surprised if they, and Lieutenant Garrison, didn't get that far on their own. But we came quite a bit further along than that 'single scoop, vanilla ice cream, in a dish', I assure you. And I never regretted it, April. Though I will admit, there have been times I've envied them a little, especially after Alexander told me they were still together after all that time. Of course, I never knew Lieutenant Garrison was part of the picture, not back then, not til Alexander told me about their visit in his office, them, their children. Though, looking back, it makes perfect sense."

Another laugh, "no certainly not 'single scoop, vanilla, in a dish'."

April HAD delivered a eulogy for Miriam, one that expressed her sincere affection and respect for the older woman. A woman who had made her choices knowingly, and kept to the bargain she'd made with herself all those years ago.

When Napoleon Solo took over after Waverly's death, it seemed the ideal solution, the ideal timing to request to be returned to field duty. She WAS still more than a few years away from the mandatory field agent's retirement age of forty. 

Perhaps that might have worked out, but she wasn't given the chance. Well, she had, but it hadn't lasted. 

Napoleon had teamed her with Illya, working on special projects, that being a work-around for that pesky retirement rule as it would have soon affected the Russian, and that had worked well. They had a sound respect and affection for each other, and had proved quite effective as a team. 

She never knew what had happened between those two, Illya and Napoleon, after all that time together, but one minute Illya was in New York, readying them for the next assignment; the next he was on his way to Argentina, and from there, back to Russia, without even saying goodbye to her. 

Napoleon had refused to discuss it, then or later, merely telling her "it was Illya's decision. That's the end of it." It obviously hurt him enough she stopped asking.

And there she was again, in that office she'd used while acting as Waverly's right-hand, only this time performing that role for Napoleon. And so it went for some time. Until the morning Napoleon had come in grey-faced, and quietly issued the order to change the tag on Illya's file from 'Inactive' to 'Inactive - Deceased'. 

He changed even more after that, becoming more and more engrossed in the job, more and more remote from any interaction that was not required by the job. No one was overly surprised at the massive heart attack that came shortly thereafter. 

The surprise was the voting of the Committee, the vote that put her sitting behind his desk, at least temporarily, til they could determine a more permanent solution. Since then she'd been doing her damnedest to keep the place on an even keel, continue the fight against Thrush and everyone else trying to burn the world to blackened cinders. Temporary turned to permanent, and the time went by.

And so it went, day after day, year after year, until she was so weary she had approached the Committee about putting Miles Harris, her heir-apparent, in charge. But the Committee hadn't agreed, hadn't felt he was ready, and so she was still here.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, knowing she needed to finish what she was doing in order to make that next briefing regarding the situation in Lithuania, wondering if anything she was doing would really make a difference. She was wondering that more and more these days. Perhaps it didn't. Perhaps she should just . . . 

Sighing, she knew she couldn't just quit. Well, until the Committee agreed it was time to pass on the cloak of authority. And as discouraging as it was to think in that direction, even if, WHEN she did walk away, it would be just that. A walking away. Not a walking TOWARD anything or anyone. There WASN'T anything or anyone else. 

The air shimmered around her, but she didn't notice, just as she steadfastly ignored the bead of perspiration coating her forehead, the tightness in her chest, the sharp pain in the side of her head, the increased difficulty she was having breathing. The shimmering increased til it made it more and more difficult to read the words on the papers in front of her. Her charm bracelet, something she never let leave her wrist any more, was heating up, almost burning her skin; she ignored it in the need to get this last project out of the way before moving on to the next.

She bent over the file, trying to make out that last paragraph.

She was jolted back to full awareness by a laughing voice, a so-familiar voice, telling her, "just as I thought. Working too hard, as usual. Time to rest, luv. You've done what they've asked of you, and a damned sight more. Come on now, April, we've a lot of time to make up for, any number of things to get caught up on, you know." 

She raised her eyes, blinking back the sudden dampness at the sight of the dim figure in front of her. Dim, but increasing in clarity second by second.

"Mark? Darling?" 

"Well, of course. Who did you expect, the Easter Bunny? Come along, now. Tell me, have you seen that new exhibit at the Metropolitan? Sometimes I have to wonder at what passes for art these day, you know? And the music?" 

She saw him give a very realistic shudder, and that grin she'd always found so engaging, and she didn't hesitate. Laying aside the folder, she rose, took his outstretched hand, and started to leave that file, that desk behind without the slightest regret, listening to his amusing critique of the art scene as it existed in New York today. 

At the doorway, she took one quick glance back, at the slight figure slumped forward over the desk, hesitated, but then looked into those blue eyes she'd never forgotten, and smiled, and let her partner lead her forward to whatever awaited. 

Now, the scene shifted yet again, showing her seated at a table that looked oddly familiar, the quilt on the wall in front of her seeming even more so. Hearing her own voice, oddly out of tune, rather vague and misty, quite unlike what she usually sounded like. 

"Oh, I won't be coming back, Sir. I've given it a great deal of thought, and my place isn't there, not anymore. I'll be destroying my communicator once this call is finished, so no one will find it and be able to use it, of course, and I left my weapon in my office, in the desk; you'll find it there." 

She heard Waverly trying to argue with her, but she seemed to have no inclination to respond. 

"Miss Dancer! Are you still at the retreat complex? I can have Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin come pick you up, you can discuss your fears with them in person." 

She realized he sounded quite upset, far more than he had when he'd told her that Mark had been killed. That made her want to lift one corner of her upper lip and snarl, but that wouldn't have been helpful, though it did make her smile at how it reminded her of her Cousin Caeide.

"Sir, I left the complex some time ago, days, maybe weeks, I'm not sure. And I really can't talk anymore, I need to be on my way. Mark is waiting, you see. It's just not polite, to keep your partner waiting. I've kept him waiting far too long as it is." 

That should all have seemed most ominous, of course, April-the Watcher thought. But, somehow, all it made her feel was satisfied. Content. Even eager for whatever would follow, because she had a feeling it would be a GOOD thing, whatever it was. Then, it was as if she'd merged with that other April, at least momentarily.

She felt herself handing that communicator to the shadowy figure at her side, heard the crunch as it fell victim to a heavy paperweight slammed down with some force. Then, looking into familiar blue eyes smiling into hers, she knew.

{"Yes, this was the right decision. I'm quite satisfied, totally content. I may have left everything else behind, but not the most important thing. Not my partner."}

Gradually she became aware of the wooden planks beneath her feet, a voice, hoarse, as if it had worn itself away with talking.

"April-luv? Come ON! Look this way. It's me, Mark. Come on, luv. You don't want to do this, you know you don't! If nothing else, you'll catch a chill standing there in the wind and mist and all!"

She slowly turned her head, puzzled frown on her face, seeing his distraught face, his frantic eyes. He was blocked from the bridge by a shimmering essence, similar to what the comic books called a 'force field', and from the scratched, bleeding and scorched state of his palms, had done his best to get through it.

Blinking, she looked down, watched the water crashing from the falls into the gorge below. It all flashed back through her mind, all that had been shown to her here. 

Not a promise, not that. Well, considering there were three separate scenarios, it hardly could be that. Still, it had clarified a few things, would perhaps prevent her from making some very dire mistakes in the future. She knew she wouldn't be answering that note from Joey Celeste, for one thing. A slow smile crossed her face and she turned and walked toward her partner {"my partner!"}, passing through that crystal shimmer as if it were only a mist.

Taking his hands in hers, looking at the damage, ignoring his gabbled questions, she shook her head in reproof. 

"Really, Mark darling, I can't leave you alone for a minute without you getting into trouble, can I? Come along. Let's get those hands taken care of."

That got a squawk of protest, as she could only have expected, her putting all the blame on him, but she just laughed and leaned her head against him for just a moment. Then, placing her arm through his, they made their way back to Napoleon and Illya. 

By the time they'd reached their rooms, Mark was apologizing with some embarrassment about being so clumsy as to fall and skin up both his hands so badly. 

"Can't even figure out how I did it, luv," he admitted sheepishly. "Don't remember falling, even. Though how I got the burns, I can't imagine."

As for April, her memory of those three dreams, visions, whatever they had been, had faded entirely, leaving her only with a firm if unspoken resolve that this partnership of hers, hers and Mark's, was the right path for her to follow. Though why she should suddenly be thinking of that, even questioning the matter at all, she couldn't have said. Still, there it was, and she had no doubt about it being the truth, knew she shouldn't, wouldn't even consider deviating from it.

"Well, never mind, Mark darling. Let's get out the antiseptic and the salve and I'll put you to rights soon enough. Come along now. And perhaps a drink might be in order. Now what shall we drink to, do you suppose? Oh, I know. We'll drink to 'partners'. That will work well enough for you and me, and Napoleon and Illya as well."

Well, they shared a drink, but it was just the two of them. It seemed Napoleon and Illya were still tucked away in the bedroom they were sharing, and not inclined to be disturbed. 

Oh, well, it was nice having some time just to themselves. The partners had always enjoyed that. Luck willing, if they made the right choices, they always would.

Bert had been a tad less amiable the next morning, and has urged them quickly on their way. 

"I took down a can of gasoline, but it seems you had quite enough to get you to the next town. I managed to find a small mechanical problem that probably caused your car to stall, and corrected it. Now, I'm sure you have places to be, things to do," he'd offered with a tight smile, though that smile not nearly as friendly as it had been the night before, especially when he looked at April. If anything, it seemed slightly resentful.

Driving away, April looked back and gasped. "Napoleon, stop! Look!"

There, clearly outlined in the morning sunshine, the outline of a small footbridge leading across the falls, the metal of the twisted wire guides shimmering like spun gold.

"Ah, yes," Napoleon said after clearing his throat. "Well, . . .

They indeed made it safely to the next town, stopped at a small cafe cum general store to get something to eat. Illya took the opportunity to browse through the small offerings of books and brochures and made one purchase 'Legends and Folklore of the Crystal Falls Area'.

After they were back in the car, he read one section aloud.

'The bridge has stood there for longer than local stories can begin to estimate. It has no name, not really, most just call it 'the bridge'. Some say it had always been there, before the land itself, though surely that is unlikely. 

'What is truly odd, many claim it no longer exists, that they'd been that way many a time and never seen even a trace, while others swear they can still see it shining in the sunlight on certain days. 

'Still, it is just called 'the bridge', and everyone in the area knows WHICH bridge they are referring to - a place where it is claimed that a person can see visions - visions of the past, perhaps - perhaps even of the future. 

'There is a general debate as to whether what you might see has any truth to it, certainly. But it is agreed that, if you see anything, you generally see more than you ever thought to see, perhaps more than you might ever want to see. 

'It is claimed there have been those who left that bridge, headed off the far side into the caves behind the falls, and never returned - there is speculactation that they possibly feared what they saw so much they plunged into one of the many caverns to escape. Who knows, since none returned to tell the story. 

'Some? It is claimed they so longed for what they saw in front of them, they leaned forward too far in their attempt to grab hold of it and plunged to their deaths, ending their lives on the rocks below. Again, how can one know the truth, since the dead tell no tales?

'And those who have visited the bridge and returned again? Oddly enough, none of those ever remember quite what has transpired on that narrow footbridge. Or so they claim, though there are those who doubt it, since those individuals seem to have a new direction, a new focus, a new determination in their lives. 

'Still, even for those, there can be no doubt the experience had an impact, though for better or worse, that was something only time would tell.'

April sat back in her seat, resting her head against her partner's shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing the warm bronze of her charm bracelet, glancing down at the tiny smiling figure of the woman that reminded her quite a bit of her Cousin Caeide, except for the delicately-scribed flowing ribbons that adorned that headress and garment. 

{"Thank you, Sweet Mother Erdu. I must admit I'm not sure just what it is I am thanking you FOR, but I'm sure I owe you thanks anyway. Though, perhaps you just might TELL me what you want me to know, next time?"}

And in her head, a gentle laugh and a warm voice, {"ah, child, and where would be the fun in that? And this way, this way I am better sure you will actually LISTEN to me, will perhaps make choices that will most benefit you, when the time comes."}


End file.
